Song | The Disillusionist |
Artist | The Church |
Album | Priest = Aura |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作词 : Daugherty, Kilbey, Koppes ... | |
In autumn he comes to this town | |
When the peoples guard is down | |
On a day like today | |
Overcast and gray | |
Bells were all ringing | |
The birds stopped their singing | |
The wind caught in the trees | |
Screaming to be free | |
He alights from the platform | |
In his usual uniform | |
His skin looks like he slept in it | |
Or had something rotten kept in it | |
And snakes stir in the thistles | |
Back of cats neck bristles | |
'round vicious lips the fur is stained | |
The disillusionist is back again | |
They say that he's famous from the waist down | |
But the top half of his body is a corpse | |
His gold won't buy him sleep | |
His poverty runs so deep | |
In winter he cracks, in summer he warps | |
Hang around the backstage door | |
But he knows what you're waiting for | |
You rub yourself against his fame | |
Already ready to bear the blame | |
He asks you "did you like my show?" | |
As if he really wants to know | |
Then doesn't wait for your reply | |
He just pulls you back inside | |
You've started feeling dizzy | |
It isn't you or is he | |
Persuade you mentally | |
Undress you incidentally | |
Down the swaying corridor | |
People you feel sorry for | |
But when he puts the gaze on you | |
You're amazed at what you'll let him do | |
He can turn wine into water | |
Mother against daughter | |
Juggles busy deadlines | |
Gets himself off headlines | |
Surrounded by his minions | |
Who never have opinions | |
Performing little tricks for you | |
Puts it in a fix for you | |
Smashes your watch with a hammer | |
Caresses you with camera | |
And says the magic words | |
That nobody's ever heard | |
Now the slur is fading | |
Reality all-pervading | |
It only makes you want him more | |
It only makes you fawn him more | |
And he does the indian rope trick | |
The one that makes you seasick | |
And he keeps on filling up your cup | |
But you keep on filling up | |
And some of it's done with mirrors | |
And some of it's done with scissors | |
And some of it's done with cables | |
And his hands under the table | |
It doesn't matter you want to believe | |
It doesn't matter if you have to leave | |
You won't escape his orbit | |
And the things that you must forfeit | |
And the audience seems familiar | |
Some of them in particular | |
Bet you they are his plants | |
When he plays the game of chance | |
He reads the minds of jilted girls | |
And the story really unfurls | |
Cast a fortune for the man in the suit | |
Who's suffering is very acute | |
There's a rabbit in his hat | |
But i thought i smelled a rat |
zuo ci : Daugherty, Kilbey, Koppes ... | |
In autumn he comes to this town | |
When the peoples guard is down | |
On a day like today | |
Overcast and gray | |
Bells were all ringing | |
The birds stopped their singing | |
The wind caught in the trees | |
Screaming to be free | |
He alights from the platform | |
In his usual uniform | |
His skin looks like he slept in it | |
Or had something rotten kept in it | |
And snakes stir in the thistles | |
Back of cats neck bristles | |
' round vicious lips the fur is stained | |
The disillusionist is back again | |
They say that he' s famous from the waist down | |
But the top half of his body is a corpse | |
His gold won' t buy him sleep | |
His poverty runs so deep | |
In winter he cracks, in summer he warps | |
Hang around the backstage door | |
But he knows what you' re waiting for | |
You rub yourself against his fame | |
Already ready to bear the blame | |
He asks you " did you like my show?" | |
As if he really wants to know | |
Then doesn' t wait for your reply | |
He just pulls you back inside | |
You' ve started feeling dizzy | |
It isn' t you or is he | |
Persuade you mentally | |
Undress you incidentally | |
Down the swaying corridor | |
People you feel sorry for | |
But when he puts the gaze on you | |
You' re amazed at what you' ll let him do | |
He can turn wine into water | |
Mother against daughter | |
Juggles busy deadlines | |
Gets himself off headlines | |
Surrounded by his minions | |
Who never have opinions | |
Performing little tricks for you | |
Puts it in a fix for you | |
Smashes your watch with a hammer | |
Caresses you with camera | |
And says the magic words | |
That nobody' s ever heard | |
Now the slur is fading | |
Reality allpervading | |
It only makes you want him more | |
It only makes you fawn him more | |
And he does the indian rope trick | |
The one that makes you seasick | |
And he keeps on filling up your cup | |
But you keep on filling up | |
And some of it' s done with mirrors | |
And some of it' s done with scissors | |
And some of it' s done with cables | |
And his hands under the table | |
It doesn' t matter you want to believe | |
It doesn' t matter if you have to leave | |
You won' t escape his orbit | |
And the things that you must forfeit | |
And the audience seems familiar | |
Some of them in particular | |
Bet you they are his plants | |
When he plays the game of chance | |
He reads the minds of jilted girls | |
And the story really unfurls | |
Cast a fortune for the man in the suit | |
Who' s suffering is very acute | |
There' s a rabbit in his hat | |
But i thought i smelled a rat |
zuò cí : Daugherty, Kilbey, Koppes ... | |
In autumn he comes to this town | |
When the peoples guard is down | |
On a day like today | |
Overcast and gray | |
Bells were all ringing | |
The birds stopped their singing | |
The wind caught in the trees | |
Screaming to be free | |
He alights from the platform | |
In his usual uniform | |
His skin looks like he slept in it | |
Or had something rotten kept in it | |
And snakes stir in the thistles | |
Back of cats neck bristles | |
' round vicious lips the fur is stained | |
The disillusionist is back again | |
They say that he' s famous from the waist down | |
But the top half of his body is a corpse | |
His gold won' t buy him sleep | |
His poverty runs so deep | |
In winter he cracks, in summer he warps | |
Hang around the backstage door | |
But he knows what you' re waiting for | |
You rub yourself against his fame | |
Already ready to bear the blame | |
He asks you " did you like my show?" | |
As if he really wants to know | |
Then doesn' t wait for your reply | |
He just pulls you back inside | |
You' ve started feeling dizzy | |
It isn' t you or is he | |
Persuade you mentally | |
Undress you incidentally | |
Down the swaying corridor | |
People you feel sorry for | |
But when he puts the gaze on you | |
You' re amazed at what you' ll let him do | |
He can turn wine into water | |
Mother against daughter | |
Juggles busy deadlines | |
Gets himself off headlines | |
Surrounded by his minions | |
Who never have opinions | |
Performing little tricks for you | |
Puts it in a fix for you | |
Smashes your watch with a hammer | |
Caresses you with camera | |
And says the magic words | |
That nobody' s ever heard | |
Now the slur is fading | |
Reality allpervading | |
It only makes you want him more | |
It only makes you fawn him more | |
And he does the indian rope trick | |
The one that makes you seasick | |
And he keeps on filling up your cup | |
But you keep on filling up | |
And some of it' s done with mirrors | |
And some of it' s done with scissors | |
And some of it' s done with cables | |
And his hands under the table | |
It doesn' t matter you want to believe | |
It doesn' t matter if you have to leave | |
You won' t escape his orbit | |
And the things that you must forfeit | |
And the audience seems familiar | |
Some of them in particular | |
Bet you they are his plants | |
When he plays the game of chance | |
He reads the minds of jilted girls | |
And the story really unfurls | |
Cast a fortune for the man in the suit | |
Who' s suffering is very acute | |
There' s a rabbit in his hat | |
But i thought i smelled a rat |